Never Again
by ravingsofafangirl
Summary: Another short drabble set just after the Prom Queen episode of Glee. Kurt realizes just how deep Blaine's scars go.


**Summary: **Another drabble! I was somewhat inspired by this awesome animation set here: [.com/post/9856487746/these-three-guys-they-beat-the-living-crap-out-of]. If there's interest, I may keep at it until it becomes something more than me going 'words are fun, hurr'. I seem to have a fixation around the _Prom Queen_ episode of season 2. I'm not sure why per say, it just had so many untold moments and I really wanted to investigate more about Blaine's past. That kind of thing leaves a hell of a mark.

**Rating:** PG-ish, I guess.

**Pairing:** Klaine

—

The first time Kurt realizes Blaine still has nightmares about being beaten up is after his Junior Prom.

He doesn't remember when they fell asleep, curled together on his bed still in their suits, Kurt's arm across Blaine's chest; his head making a pillow of his lapel and Blaine with one arm beneath his head; one folded around Kurt's shoulders, his fingers curling a little into the material of his jacket.

They'd just been talking. Idly, gently, nothing talk that had no direction and Blaine had to leave soon because Kurt had made a promise to Burt that Blaine wouldn't sleep over without permission …

_no, please_

"Hm, wha …?" His head is fuzzy as he blinks open his eyes and realizes its pitch black outside and his curtains are still open. Propping himself up on an elbow; one eye squinting, Kurt licked his lips; his mouth tasted stale, like hours old punch and peppermints.

He yawned; pawing at his face with one hand and twisting to see his clock. How had they managed to drift off? He'd better wake Blaine before — "Oh, _crap_!" Kurt rolled to one side and fell halfway off his bed. "Blaine, _wake up_!" He hissed, voice whisper-shy of hysterical.

"It's **2AM**, my Dad is going to _kill_ us. Blaine!"

The lump he knew was his boyfriend didn't stir but to moan; and listlessly kick out a leg housed in rumpled material. Kurt froze in tearing off his suit jacket as he heard another sound; a whimper. He'd never heard such a pitiful noise before and it was coming from Blaine.

_stop, just stop, please stop_

He sounded terrified.

Kurt turned; gripping his jacket in both hands; eyes wide.

"Blaine?" He called softly; hopefully. Maybe it was just a dream, just a regular dream and he'd wake up in a second, smiling that damn goofy, entirely too sexy smile of his like he always did when he was all sleep-rumpled.

Another noise; this time a whine and Kurt reached out; carefully tugging the blankets off his boyfriend's body. He felt a lump rise in his throat.

"_Oh_." He breathed, not sure for a second what to do.

Blaine lay half curled in a ball on his side of the bed; his arms covering his head protectively; knees pulled up as if to ward off blows to his mid-section. One of his palms lay open; fingers twitching as if he were beseeching some phantom attacker to stop.

For a moment all Kurt could do was stand there with a white-knuckled grip on his jacket listening to his heart thumping inside his chest. He wasn't sure if he should try and wake Blaine up, or … or was that wrong when someone was having a nightmare? Did you let them keep sleeping?

Maybe he could wake his Dad up. No, then he'd have to try and explain the situation to him and Blaine hadn't given Kurt permission to tell anyone else about his history. He worried his lip, staring down at Blaine's shuddering; shivering form.

Finn! He could …ugh, no. What was he even thinking of, Finn would be hopeless. He panicked over breakfast choices, he wouldn't know what to do with - do with …

"_No stop, leave me alone! Don't __**hurt**__ him!_"

Kurt couldn't watch Blaine suffer like this; it was breaking his heart. He lay his jacket over the back of his chair and carefully crept closer, keeping enough distance that he wouldn't be on the receiving end of a limb should Blaine freak out and react to him being close. Kurt lowered himself to his knees; feeling the bare skin grazing the carpet where his kilt ended.

Up close, he could see Blaine's skin was waxy; damp with sweat and his eyes were tightly, tightly shut. His expression was one of agonized endurance and Kurt had to curl his fingers into the carpet to resist reaching out and touching him. Smoothing away the lines on his brow.

"Blaine." He said gently.

Nothing. He took a breath, tried again a little louder.

"Blaine, it's Kurt."

The boy shifted a little; rubbing the side of his face against the pillow. "Blaine, can you hear me? Wake up for me honey. You're safe. Nobody is hurting you." He felt his throat getting scratchy as he spoke, god, what had it been like for him? Was it like this? Curled in a ball while three boys kicked and punched at him?

Turned his beautiful face and sides bloody and bruised? The idea of anyone damaging Blaine's beautiful, expressive features made something terrible and cold settle in Kurt's stomach. His boyfriend was stoic, had been composed when he'd told him about the dance he'd been attacked at but Kurt had known, felt the niggling certainty that Blaine would never tell him the details.

Not willingly.

"Kurt?"

A small voice said from the bed, and Kurt leaned in despite himself; a hand giving in to the temptation to touch; comfort. Blaine had done so much for him tonight, the least he could do was be here, even if Blaine was sleeping, for him in return. He brushed damp curls from his face where he could reach.

"Shh, yes. I'm here, Blaine. You're safe. You hear me? You're safe and I'll never … never let anyone touch you again."

The other boy let out a tiny sigh and appeared to relax a little; his breathing evening out, minute by minute. Kurt lost track of how long he sat there with one hand pressing against Blaine's skin; thumb rubbing against his cheekbone. He rested his head against his bookcase and at some point realized he'd been silently crying.

For Blaine.

For himself.

For all the misunderstanding and the hate that still existed in the world.

He sat there until sunrise.


End file.
